


Duty is a Killing Sword

by devilinthedetails



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Choices, Darkness, Duty, F/M, Family, Friendship, Gen, Illusions, Love, Nightmares, Ordeal of Knighthood, Scenes of Death in Visions, Silence, Truth, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 10:15:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13292721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: Roald's vigil and Ordeal of Knighthood.





	Duty is a Killing Sword

Duty is a Killing Sword

The night before his Ordeal, Roald slept fitfully, tormented by vague threats that couldn’t be destroyed by a simple stroke of the sword. He didn’t scream aloud at such nightmares but awoke at the faint crack of dawn across a grim gray horizon. With trembling fingers, he fumbled through putting on breeches and a shirt. 

Not wanting to stay in the room where nightmares had besieged him, he stepped into the parlor of his knightmaster’s quarters. Servants must have slipped in to light the fire blazing in the hearth, warming the room and creating long, looming shadows on the walls. 

He was tempted to plop into an armchair and watch the shifting shapes in the flames but feared that would encourage him to think too much, and he knew that he would have enough time to be alone with his mind—doubting himself and imagining the horrors that lurked in the Chamber—during his vigil. Excessive contemplation might weaken him, especially since he was hesitant by nature. 

Seeking a distraction, he grabbed a book at random from the case along the wall. Dropping into a sofa by the roaring fire, he flipped open the tome and discovered it was a rather tiresome treatise on Tyran trading practices. Such a topic was, of course, important for Lord Imrah, whose southern port city was Tortall’s most frequent trading partner with Tyra, but that didn’t transform the volume into scintillating reading. 

His focus wavered from word to word and paragraph to paragraph. He found himself needing to re-read pages when he came to their conclusion only to realize that he had no recollection of what had been written upon them. The book was proving less of a distraction than he had hoped, but his eyelids were getting heavy, as if they longed to stay shut every time he blinked them…

He might have fallen asleep—likely to descend into nightmares again—if Lord Imrah hadn’t arrived in the parlor. 

“You don’t have to be up so early, lad.” Lord Imrah sat on the coach next to Roald and draped an arm around his shoulders. “Yet I thought you would be.” 

“I’m reading, sir.” Roald held up the book, grateful for the explanation it provided him for being awake before the sun had properly risen. Saying he was reading sounded much better than admitting that nightmares had fractured his sleep all night, and it wasn’t precisely a lie. He might stretch the truth with his knightmaster, but he wouldn’t lie. 

Unfortunately, Lord Imrah was clever enough to see a stretched truth for what it was, for he said gently, “Nightmares before and after the Ordeal are common. If you didn’t get them, that’d be more worrisome than if you did.” 

“Do you think Vinson will ever be released from his nightmares?” Roald massaged his temples. He’d been in the audience chamber that frosty morning, standing still and silent as a statue to the right of his parents’ thrones while his closest sister Kally remained rooted on their left, her face turning ever redder with rage as Vinson confessed to assault and rape. He’d felt as if all the blood had been drained from him, reducing him to a corpse who couldn’t rest in peace. He didn’t believe Vinson deserved to be free from the Chamber’s punishment. After all, the women Vinson had hurt in unspeakable ways would never be completely free of their attacker. Still, it was terrifying to see a year mate—someone he had sparred with, studied with, ate with, and talked with—be broken to a sobbing shell by a mysterious force Roald must face come dawn. 

“It’s not nightmares that torture Vinson.” Lord Imrah shook his head. “It’s his own crimes. I trust that you haven’t been guilty of such crimes.” 

“If I were, Mama would kill me herself.” Roald’s lips quirked. “I wouldn’t have to worry about what the Chamber would do to me, my lord.” 

“You’re not Vinson, Roald.” Lord Imrah squeezed Roald’s shoulder. “What happened to Vinson won’t happen to you because you haven’t committed the horrible crimes he did. You’ll be as fine as anyone can be after your Ordeal—shaken but not broken.” 

“Yes, sir,” agreed Roald more from a desire for this to be true than a genuine conviction that it was. 

As if he sensed Roald’s doubt, Lord Imrah went on, “I don’t know what your nightmares are, but the monster in them is yourself. I can’t tell you what you’ll find in the Chamber, but the darkness there is the one you carry inside you. The Chamber strips away all illusion and shows us how we truly are. The worse we are, the more horrifying that sight is, squire.” 

“I try to be a good person, my lord.” Roald just wondered if he was good enough, not just to survive his Ordeal but to one day reign as king. As Crown Prince, that was his biggest fear for himself, for his family, and for his country: that no matter how hard he tried, his best would never quite be good enough, and he would fail to fulfill the duties that meant everything to him—that were his reason for existing. 

“You’re a good person.” Lord Imrah’s assurance sounded as if it came from leagues away. “Not a perfect person—nobody is—but a good one who tries to act justly and honorably even in the most difficult situations. Remember that bedrock of who you are in the Chamber.” 

“You’re my favorite of Da’s squires,” chimed in a voice from the doorway to the room shared by Lord Imrah’s daughters. It was the younger one, Julienne, who had spoken. She lurched herself across the parlor and wrapped her slender arms around Roald. “The one before you used to yank out my ribbons and pull on my hair, but you never did.” 

“I’m honored to be your favorite.” Roald felt as if he were losing the battle to maintain a straight face. “Sounds as if I had fierce competition.” 

“We’ll spend the night praying for you, you know,” Mathilde, Lord Imrah’s older daughter, added, appearing in the threshold of her bedchamber. “We won’t sleep a wink any more than you will. We’ll sit up in solidarity.” 

Roald, about to point out that they didn’t have to join his vigil, saw on their faces that they wanted to and inclined his head. “Thank you for your support, ladies. It means more than words can say.” 

“We’ll be in the chapel when you come out.” Lady Marielle arrived in the parlor with a brisk clap of her hands to announce herself. “I heard voices and see everyone is awake. Let’s have breakfast. Will you be dining with us or your parents, Roald?” 

His mouth as dry as the southern desert, Roald thought that eating would be impossible. Based on the churning in his stomach, he suspected that anything he forced down would be resurrected as vomit anyhow. 

“I’ll breakfast with my parents, thank you, my lady,” he answered, though he would probably do little more than fiddle with his food. 

“Very well.” Lord Imrah shot Roald a look of mingled concern and sternness. “Promise me you will eat though, lad.” 

“I promise, my lord.” Roald gave an obedient nod even as he noted inwardly that most of his meal would likely be gnawing strips of his lower lip. 

“Good, and by that I don’t mean chewing on your lip.” Lord Imrah ruffled Roald’s hair, and it was only then that Roald recognized that he was biting his lip almost to bloodiness. 

Releasing it and reforming his mouth into a sheepish smile, Roald remarked, “You know me too well, sir.” 

“I do.” Lord Imrah patted Roald on the back. “Enjoy your time with your family. I’ll see you at sunset.” 

“Yes, my lord.” Roald rose and bowed, trying not to think about his impending vigil or the Ordeal at the end of it. 

“May Mithros protect you.” Lady Marielle’s blessing made him spin around as he prepared to take his leave. 

“Thank you, my lady.” He bowed to her as her daughters and Lord Imrah echoed the benediction. 

As he departed Lord Imrah’s chambers and made his way to the royal wing, he strode through corridors decorated for the holiday. Garlands of evergreen, sprigs of ivy, and blossoms of holly festooned the stone walls. The Midwinter cheer contrasted with the turmoil in Roald’s chest, an impression that only increased when he entered the private royal dining room, where wreaths hung from the vaulted ceiling, juniper scented candles burned in the golden chandelier overhead, and holly and ivy in shimmering crystal vases were centerpieces on the table where Roald’s entire family sat, breakfasting together. 

As he exchanged greetings with his parents and sibling before sliding into a vacant chair, Roald thought that he shouldn’t have been surprised to see his whole family arrayed around the table soon after sunrise. The Conte line bred early birds and night owls. It was a trite truism throughout the court that the Contes blazed with so much passion that they couldn’t stop burning both ends of the candle. 

“We’re happy that you could join us, Roald.” Papa beamed a welcome as Roald settled himself at the table. “Please help yourself. We aren’t standing on ceremony.” 

“Thank you, Papa.” Roald surveyed the platters and bowls laden with food. The eggs would be too filling, the porridge too heavy, the Midwinter buns too sweet and sticky, and the bacon too fatty. That left only the oranges. He selected an orange from the fruit bowl and peeled it, the pungent aroma energizing him as nothing else that morning had. 

The tang of citrus on his tongue empowered him, making him feel alive and as if he could accomplish anything. He had only eaten to not appear rude by refusing his father’s offer and because he wanted to keep his promise to Lord Imrah, but the orange tasted good, moistening his dry throat. 

“Is that all you’re going to eat, Roald?” Mama frowned, and Roald realized that everyone else had loaded plates, while he nibbled at an orange. 

“I’ll have another orange when I’m done with this one, Mama,” he assured her, although he hadn’t been planning on indulging in anther piece of fruit. 

Mama looked as if that wasn’t what she had meant but before she could continue to prod him to consume more breakfast, Jasson, green eyes pointed as ivy, commented, “I hope you aren’t intimidated by the Chamber of the Ordeal. It’s nothing more a room, Roald, and it’s not sensible to be scared of a room.” 

“It’s not just a room.” Roald’s jaw tightened. He knew that—in a peculiar, sharp-tongued, and matter-of-fact fashion—Jasson was trying to comfort him, but Roald would’ve preferred Jasson remain quiet than attempt to drag logic into a discussion of a room that was almost supernatural in that its powers seemed to defy human reasoning and explication. “That’s why it’s sensible to treat the Chamber with the appropriate reverence.” 

“You’re scared of it.” Jasson shoveled a spoonful of porridge into his mouth. “You’re letting recent events color your perception of the likelihood of outcomes.” 

“Would you care to explain what you mean in clear Common, Jasson?” Roald felt weary just attempting to keep up the wild leaps of Jasson’s nimble mind. It was too early, he grumbled to himself, to puzzle through Jasson’s riddles. 

“Vinson emerged from the Chamber battered and babbling a confession.” Jasson’s waving spoon indicated he had reached the thrust of his statement. “You think the same thing will happen to you, but it won’t. Just because something happened recently doesn’t mean that mathematically it’ll have higher odds of occurring again soon. That’s a fallacy—the kind that makes drunkards at alehouses squander coin they don’t have gambling dice will come up in a combination they just saw. Don’t delude yourself with a lie that just because Vinson failed that will have any impact on you.” 

It was on the tip of his tongue to retort that Jasson might not be so sanguine if he were about to face the dreaded Chamber but decided that he didn’t want to risk his last conversation with Jasson being a spat. 

Liam ended up speaking for Roald. The hazel eyes he had inherited from Mama rolling, Liam snorted. “The deluded one is you, Jasson. You act all high and mighty with your superior smarts, but you wouldn’t be calculating odds before your Ordeal. You’d be wishing you could have your sword at your side when you fight the Chamber.” 

“The Chamber isn’t an enemy you fight with a sword, Liam,” interjected Papa, tone firm but blue eyes haunted, before Jasson could snap back and spark a full-fledged squabble. 

“I know that, Papa.” Liam, who resented any parental correction no matter how mild, stabbed at his eggs with his fork. “I’m just saying that Jasson—that anyone—would wish it was, so Jasson could be less of jerk by trying to be less of a genius with Roald.” 

“I’m not being a jerk.” Pedantic Jasson could no more permit this calumny to pass without challenge than he could cease breathing. “You’re the one hurling baseless insults, Liam. I was just trying to be consoling.” 

“Your idea of consoling is useless,” chipped in Vania, whose blue-green eyes were more green this morning as she was wearing a jade gown. “You try to reduce everything to rationality but people don’t always feel or behave rationally.” 

“People want their feelings acknowledged when they’re being comforted.” Lianne, seated beside Roald, reached out to squeeze his fingers, her brown eyes warm as honey in tea. To Roald, she added bracingly, “Your Ordeal will be over by this time tomorrow, and you’ll be a knight by sunset.” 

Perhaps to take Roald’s mind off the Ordeal that had dominated the family’s conversation (rather unhelpfully, in Roald’s opinion, as he would have preferred to forget about it for his few remaining hours of peace), Mama inquired in a determinedly pleasant manner, “What are your plans for the day, Roald?” 

“I hope to take Shinko into Corus, Mama.” Roald believed that Shinko wouldn’t merely distract him from his upcoming vigil and Ordeal; in her quiet way, she would give him all the wisdom and courage he needed to survive his Ordeal without screaming. She would be his strength in this as in so much else. 

At this, Liam gave a cough that sounded suspiciously similar to “lovebirds.” 

“If you don’t stop mocking your brother’s relationship with his betrothed, Liam, I’ll engage you to a giantess to promote peace with the Immortals,” warned Papa, demonstrating his talent for imaginative threats. 

“You do that, Papa.” A smirking Liam was obviously unfazed by this rebuke. “I’ll just ask Lord Raoul how to kill her.” 

“You’re all brawn and no brain.” Jasson clucked his tongue in a way that meant he was proud to have outsmarted Liam—his constant competition—again. “Buri told me that a giantess fell in love with him once and begged him to marry her. Just ask Lord Raoul how to charm a giantess, and you’ll be guaranteed a merry marriage.” 

“You’re the one with no brains if you believe Buri’s tall tales,” scoffed Liam. 

Reluctant to listen to the rest of Liam and Jasson’s bickering and having finished the second orange he had assured Mama he would eat, Roald asked his parents, “Might I have Your Majesties’ leave to go to Princess Shinkokami?” 

“Come here first.” Papa rose, and when Roald approached, he found himself swept into a crushing embrace against Papa’s chest. The hug should have been soothing, an affirmation that he was loved by his father, but somehow he couldn’t breathe through ribs that felt as if they were shattering. He became only more choked when Papa said, his words less a reassurance than a command, “Make us proud, son.” 

Papa never specified the “us” but he didn’t have to, because Roald understood that “us” meant his parents, his siblings, and the whole realm from duke to peasant. Papa was ordering him to do his duty by the kingdom, and, as always, his tone left no doubt that Roald would and could obey. His father’s faith should’ve been a rock he could cling to but instead he felt smashed against the weight of everyone’s expectations. If he failed, he wouldn’t be disappointing just himself or his parents; he would be failing his entire country, and he doubted that Papa would still love him then. A king’s love for his heir was conditional, even if a father’s love of his son wasn’t supposed to be (though the law allowed for disowning rebellious or otherwise unsatisfactory sons so that love had strings that could be cut too). 

“Yes, Papa.” Roald spoke only when he was confident that he wouldn’t stumble over the simple words. “I’ll do my duty, and I won’t disappoint you.” 

“You’ve never disappointed us, Roald.” Mama pulled him into a hug after Papa released him, but her words only made Roald’s heart pound with more pressure since if he had never disappointed his parents, his Ordeal was a terrible time to start disgracing his family and kingdom. 

“I never will, Mama.” The vow was easier spoken than done but duty left no room for equivocations. 

Mama patted his cheeks before pushing him away from her. 

Kally, who had been uncharacteristically silent throughout breakfast, slid her seat back and stood. “I’d be happy to accompany you to Shinko’s quarters, Roald.” 

“I’d welcome the pleasure of your company, Kally.” Roald nodded, thinking that she must have some advice or consolation she didn’t want to deliver in front of the whole family. 

Kally curtsied to their parents, and, accepting the arm he extended to her, allowed herself to be escorted from the dining room. 

Once the door closed behind them, Kally sighed. “Mama and Papa are horrible at giving comfort, and they don’t even notice it, do they? When I was shipped off to King’s Reach at twelve—away from everything and everyone I loved—they just told me to be brave and do my duty, but a twelve-year-old girl leaving home for the first time doesn’t want to to hear about duty or bravery. It’s the same with an eighteen-year-old boy facing his Ordeal. He doesn’t need to hear about during his duty and making them proud. He’s heard that lecture a thousand times before and could recite it from memory very dutifully.” 

“Heirs don’t need comfort.” Roald was certain that a king who craved comfort would have his realm in chaos within a year of ascending the throne. Craving comfort was a weakness in royalty. “Heirs need to be reminded of their duty always so they never forget it.” 

“You never forget your duty.” Kally nudged him. “And you’re always so serious. That’s a trait I always tried to tease out of you, Roald.” 

“You teased it out of me as much as anyone could, Kally.” Roald had never met anyone who could make him smile or laugh as quickly or as often as Kally could. 

“All that tells me is you were born to a stick-in-the-swamp.” Kally’s grin took any sting out of her assessment of him. Sobering, she continued, “I want to tell you something important. When Papa convinced me not to try for my knighthood because then I wouldn’t be able to make the marriage Tortall needed me to, I assured myself that it was all right that I wasn’t able to get my shield because you’d earn yours for both of us. That’s what you’re going to do tomorrow. You’re going to be knighted for both of us, and I’m going to be so proud of you for doing everything I couldn’t do.” 

Coming from anyone else, such a speech would have filled Roald with anxiety about failing to meet expectations—falling short of doing his duty—but with Kally, since they shared a deep bond nothing could break, he felt only more resolved to succeed not for himself but for her. He would achieve her dream for her. He would do what she had never gotten the chance to do. That was a brother’s love and responsibility. 

Knowing it would make her feel weak to have to rely on a male to do what she wasn’t permitted to, Roald confided, “There’s things you’ll have to do for me that I’ll never be able to do myself like travel to Carthak, explore their university, and see the exotic creatures—the camels, the elephants, and the crocodiles.” 

Roald, who had always loved to read, had longed since boyhood to travel to the places he learned about in books but when he was still little, he had discovered that heirs and kings were rarely allowed to venture outside their domains for security’s sake. During his years in Port Legann when he could watch ships from Tyra, the Copper Isles, Carthak, and the Yamani Islands dock at the wharves and could see their wares on sale in the bustling marketplaces, this hunger to explore the world that he realized would never be sated had only grown. Kally was doomed to leave home, he thought morosely, and he was sentenced to stay trapped in it forever. The ballads about knights in shining armor rescuing damsels in distress imprisoned in towers had the roles reversed as far as Roald was concerned. 

“I’ll have some exotic creatures sent to you from Carthak when I’m empress.” Kally tugged on the diamond ring that Emperor Kaddar’s emissary had given her to mark their engagement. “His Imperial Majesty delights in giving me extravagant gifts.” 

“This would be an extravagant gift for me, not you,” Roald reminded her wryly. 

“It’d be for me if I asked it of him.” Kally’s chin lifted. 

“You have him wrapped around your finger, don’t you?” Roald chuckled, marveling that she had drawn such an amused noise from him hours before he endured the most harrowing experience of his life. 

“Almost as well as Shinko does you.” Kally elbowed him in the ribs. “Speaking of Shinko, I’ll look after her like a sister tonight. She won’t be alone when you’re going through your vigil and Ordeal, Roald.” 

“Thank you, Kally.” The words seemed inadequate but Roald was too overcome by emotion to be more articulate. 

“No need to thank me.” Kally’s voice was brusque but her eyes were gentle. “You’re my brother, and I love you.” 

“You’re my sister,” replied Roald, entwining his arm more tightly with hers and leaving unsaid the fact that she was his favorite sister. He doted on Lianne for her sweetness and Vania for her exuberance, but it was Kally he trusted with his secrets, his doubts, his dreams, and his fears. She understood without him ever saying so that he favored her over his other sisters, though he tried to conceal it as favoritism was unbefitting a Crown Prince, but she never took advantage of that, and he loved her all the more for that lack of guile. “I’d do anything for you.” 

They had arrived outside Shinko’s quarters. Roald raised a fist to knock on the door, which was opened instantly by a guard. Once the guard had admitted them with a bow, Shinko, resplendent in an Eastern style satin dress, curtsied a welcome. “Your Highnesses. I hope that you’ll join me for tea.” 

Kally, who had developed a taste for green tea since being introduced to it by Shinko, and Roald knelt with Shinko around one of the small tables popular among the Yamani. 

Pouring tea into cups for her visitors, Shinko remarked in a calm tone Roald heard containing inner unease, “I’ve been so bold as to prepare a special recipe for fasting. It’s infused with herbs and strong spices as well as honey. Yamani warriors use it for strength before long marches.” 

Sipping at his tea, which mingled sweetness with spiciness and did imbue him with a feeling of power and serenity, Roald grinned wanly at her. “What would I do without you, Shinko?” 

“Drink up Keladry of Mindelan’s stores of green tea.” Shinko’s eyes crinkled in an expression he recognized as almost laughter. 

“Shinko.” Kally’s palms cradled her teacup as she drank. “I wanted to invite you to come to my chambers this evening. Lianne and Vania will be there as well. We can support each other during a long night that doesn’t have to be lonely.” 

“I’d be honored to accept.” Shinko inclined her head. “I’m embroidering an altarpiece I hope to be able to donate to the Mithran temple in Corus by the end of Midwinter. If it doesn’t offend you, I’ll work on that project.” 

“It doesn’t offend me as long as you don’t request my help with the embroidery.” Kally grinned crookedly. “Embroidery only offends me when people expect me to do it.” 

“I’ll not ask such a feat as embroidery of you.” Shinko’s fan flicked in a fashion Roald had learned to interpret as a sign she was joking. 

“Then I’ll provide the conversation and refreshment, and you the embroidery.” Kally nodded decisively. “Come to my quarters once Roald leaves you. We’ll keep one another company and make the night go as fast as possible.” 

She kissed Shinko on each cheek, hugged Roald, and then departed. As the door shut behind her, Shinko, stroking her fan, murmured, “Your sisters are very kind to one as unworthy as myself.” 

“You’re worthy of every kindness.” Roald laced his fingers through hers. “If my sisters are ever unkind to you, talk to me, and I’ll speak to them. I won’t let anyone be unkind to you, Shinko.” 

“Nobody in your family has ever been unkind to me.” Shinko squeezed his fingers. “I’m honored by their treatment of me.” 

“Will you honor me by walking with me into Corus?” Roald rubbed at her smooth palm. “There is a ceremony at the Mithran temple I believe you’d enjoy.” 

“I’m always happy to learn to worship your gods according to your customs.” Shinko let him lead her to her feet as he reflected that Shinko had indeed exerted ever effort to understand religion in Tortall. 

He described the ceremony—lighting candles across the temple’s grounds to illuminate Mithros’ path to their place of worship after he waged war to restore brightness to the world after the longest, darkest night of the year—as they made their way into the city flanked by a squad of Shinko’s soldiers. 

The ceremony was a stark reminder to Roald of his duty—because Mithros could have chosen to leave the world in darkness but instead had fought to bring light into a bleak world of inequity, so Roald in justice could do no differently—and when the festival ended, Shinko pressed her flower petal mouth to his ear to whisper, “It was a beautiful service, Roald. We use candles or worship in the Yamani Islands as well. We light candles in lanterns and release them to appeal to our revered ancestors to favor us with their prayers on our behalf.” 

“That sounds stunning.” Roald could imagine that hundreds of lit lanterns soaring into the sky would be spectacular to behold. 

“It is.” Shinko linked her arm through his, and they began their return to the palace through snow-strewn streets. As the sun slipped down the horizon, the mounting cold and darkness mirroring Roald’s clouding heart, Shinko commented, all acceptance and no judgment, “You’re afraid of the Chamber especially after what it did to Vinson of Genlith.” 

“I am.” Roald drew her against his chest so she could feel the pledge in each heartbeat that he would emerge from the Chamber unbroken for her. “My duty is stronger than my fear, though. I’ll do what I must and come out for you, Shinko.” 

“I know you will.” Shinko’s eyes widened in earnestness. “That’s why I love you, Roald. There’s never any question that you’ll do your duty.” 

“I love you too, Shinko, and I’ll never give you a reason to doubt me in anything.” Roald kissed her hair and smelled the jasmine soap she favored for bathing. 

This sweet scent lingered in his nose as a warm reminder of her as he entered the chilled chamber where he was to wash before his vigil. Lord Imrah and Sir Kieran haMinch, a knight Roald had only seen sparingly at official functions but who had likely been selected by Lord Imrah since he was from an ancient and conservative house (which would prevent conservatives from being affronted by the second knight who was chosen to advise the heir to the throne before his Ordeal), were waiting for him. Lord Imrah was bundled in a cloak, but Sir Kieran looked cozy clad only in breeches and tunic. From the far north, he plainly had a different definition of what constituted cold. 

“Sir Kieran, thank you for honoring me.” Bowing, Roald offered the ritual expression of gratitude to the second instructor. 

“The honor is all mine, Your Highness.” Sir Kieran gave a curt nod, and Roald recalled the old aphorism about Minchi being as harsh as the mountain landscape that bred them. “Are you prepared to be instructed?” 

“I am.” Roald, as ready as he would ever be, tried to sound firm although he was trembling inside. 

As Lord Imrah said his ritual words, reminding Roald of what it meant to be a knight, Roald undressed. It was humbling to strip in front of a knight he barely knew, and Roald debated with himself whether this was one more tradition to break a squire’s pride before his Ordeal or he was too sensitive to anything that impinged upon his dignity. The wintry air made the prospect of being naked even less attractive. Gritting his teeth, he focused on the steam which promised warmth emanating from the tub, slipped out of his clothes, and sank like a stone into the sudsy water. 

It was hot enough to scald skin. Roald bit back a curse—knights and princes weren’t supposed to be vulgar even when being boiled alive—and knew his pale skin would be burned salmon. Resolved to scrub every speck of dirt off his flesh even if it tore skin from bone, he rubbed soap as far into him as it would go, willing it to cleanse body and soul. 

He remembered hearing from his own page sponsor, Gilmyn of Naxen, when he was ten and the Ordeal had been a distant nightmare that would never come true for him that even a small spot of dirt that went unwashed could cause failure. Gilmyn’s counsel seemed much louder to him than Lord Imrah’s and Sir Kieran’s, who were reciting all the duties of a knight. 

Roald believed that what Gilmyn had told him so many years ago was probably folly and exaggeration, but he wasn’t about to take any chances with the Chamber. When he presented himself to the Chamber, he would show it the respect of being as clean, body and soul, as possible. He wondered as he completed his bath whether Vinson had also scrubbed his skin until it chafed, trying to be clean for the Chamber. 

Lord Imrah and Sir Kieran were done with the ritual instruction, which Roald had barely heard. Rising from the tub, he felt frozen to his bone marrow. The contrast between the chilled room and the scalding water made him feel as if he were standing naked in the middle of a Scanran winter. Spurred into swift action by the cold, he wrapped himself in a towel and dried quickly, irritating the skin that had been burned in the bath with his rapid motions. 

Once he had dried himself, he hurried into the rough white—symbolizing purity, Roald was sure—cotton breeches and tunic that would be his only protection against the frigidity of the chapel and the Chamber. 

As soon as he had pulled on the thin garments, Lord Imrah opened the door to the chapel, flooding the room with an icy wind that wouldn’t have been out of place in a blizzard. Roald shuddered and was grateful when his knightmaster guided him into a hug, leaning close to Roald’s ear to provide a final instruction beyond what ritual dictated, “Make no noise between now and leaving the Chamber. You’ll be fine, squire.” 

Mute and nervous, Roald gave a noncommittal nod. 

“I mean it.” Obviously unsatisfied with Roald’s response, Lord Imrah shook Roald’s shoulders. “You’ll be fine, Roald.” 

The shake cut through Roald’s fear like a honed knife. More firmly, he nodded. 

“Mithros bless you.” Lord Imrah’s light shove between Roald’s shoulder blades propelled him into the frigid chapel, which made the bathing room seem balmy by comparison. 

The quivering in Roald’s knees was definitely not all from the cold. He waited a moment until he had the tremors in his knees under control since it would be humiliating if he fell on the flagstones as soon as he entered the chapel. Then he took slow, precise steps—after all, he had hours to spend and there was no need to rush toward his Ordeal—down the nave before sliding into the first pew. 

As soon as he sat down, he felt even colder from the lack of movement. He inwardly cursed the custom that required the heir to sit vigil for his Ordeal on the longest night of the year. It was, he knew, just another cruel way of testing whether the heir was good enough—strong enough—to rule. Fidgeting whether from nerves or a futile attempt to heat himself, he wondered if any heir had frozen in the chapel or if he might be the first…

The vigil would weaken him instead of strengthen him if he spent it in self-pity, he chided himself, cutting across his own miserable musings. He had to concentrate on gathering his discipline and his duty around himself like a cloak for what awaited him in the Chamber. 

From his position in the pew, he could clearly see the entrance to the Chamber that dominated his nightmares. He thought that he might have been smarter to chose to sit farther back in the chapel where the Chamber doors would have been shadowed, but, of course, it would be cowardly to retreat now. 

He needed to find something else to fix his eyes on or he would go mad before setting foot in the Chamber. A gold sun disk depicting Mithros over the altar was the only ornamentation in the chapel and seized Roald’s interest. Staring at the symbol of the sun god, Roald began to pray silently yet fervently: Mithros, be my shield and turn me into a shield for others. Forge me into a sword of duty and justice who fights to do your will. Burn away my inequities until my heart is aflame with righteousness like yours. 

His prayer completed, Roald gazed at the candle blazing beneath the sun disk, making it gleam. As prince, and if he passed his Ordeal, as a knight, it was his duty to be a candle to Tortall, he reflected. It was his duty to bring justice where there was lawlessness, peace where there was conflict, healing where there was hurt, mercy where there was ruthlessness, and hope where there was despair. It was his duty to bring brightness to the blackest parts of the realm. It was his duty to be a light to lead his people. 

Roald was determined to do his duty by the kingdom, and, when the first slivers of dawn light began to filter into the chapel, he didn’t flinch when the Mithran priest indicated that it was time to enter the Chamber. He merely nodded, glanced at the sun disk to remind himself that Mithros’ strength was most proven when a mortal’s was gone, and stepped through the door into the dread Chamber. 

As soon as he entered, the Chamber faded away until he was standing as if carved from stone in the healers’ ward of the palace. His father was lying ashen and motionless on a bed. It was the stress of ruling, Duke Baird had whispered, that had brought on the heart attack in an otherwise healthy man. 

Roald knelt, blinking back tears because princes weren’t supposed to cry, before his father’s bed. Papa lifted a frail palm over his head in benediction and rasped out the traditional blessing. It might have been this final exertion that killed him in the end. As Roald rose, Papa collapsed back on his bed, mattress rattling. His chest heaved as his breathed out and stayed still when he didn’t breathe in again. 

Roald felt as if he were choking himself as Duke Baird fumbled for a pulse in Papa’s wrists and found none. 

“The King is dead.” Duke Baird dropped to his knees before Roald, who wanted to faint, and everyone clustered in the healers’ ward, desperate to discover if Papa would live or die, mirrored him. “Long live the King!” 

Everybody echoed him, and the arches of the healers’ ward shook with their proclamations. It was the customary mourning of the death of the old king coupled with the celebration of a new king. It encapsulated everyone’s hope of a secure succession with no political upheaval. 

Roald knew that every ear in the room expected him to say something—something calming, something confident, something charismatic as Papa would have—but Roald couldn’t speak around his thick, grieving tongue. The first time his people looked at him as king, he failed them with his silence. He didn’t even need to speak to dash their dreams. He wasn’t fit to wear a crown. He was a disappointment to the realm…

The realm. He didn’t know how or why, but he was being forced to choose between it and Shinko. He could sacrifice his country for the sake of Shinko, or he could save his kingdom and lose Shinko. Shinko’s almond eyes were wide and warm, and her peach skin was soft and smooth as silk. It was tempting to pick her over the faceless masses that made up the realm, but he knew that he would only see contempt in her gaze if he abandoned his country and his duty for her sake. He put the kingdom first and abandoned her. There was no contempt or even blame in her expression—only an endless sorrow where there had once been a liveliness that made Roald’s soul dance. Somehow the sorrow was worse than blame or contempt, and he knew in his bones that he would never forgive himself for not choosing her even if she forgave him…

Shinko wasn’t the only one he had to abandon for the good of the realm. His friends since page training—Kel, Neal, Esmond, Seaver, Merric, and Owen—were chained in docket and accused of treason. He could have spoken to save them, offering the Crown’s mercy but that would have been favoritism, not fairness. Fairness was hearing the magistrate’s gavel fall after the death sentence and the swish of the sword as it sliced through one neck after the next. 

Esmond pleaded for mercy from Roald, from the gods, from the executioner, and from anyone who listened, and it killed Roald to feign deafness. Acerbic Neal was sarcastic to the end. Hot-headed Merric argued as he was dragged to to block and shoved into position. Seaver was silent as he had been the day Roald had volunteered to sponsor him when they were pages and treason was an unimaginable part of their future. Owen’s gray eyes were tormented as if he had finally learned that the world could be far from jolly. Kel’s face was placid as she went to her doom, looking as if she had already died. With a word, he could have saved them, but he remained quiet, letting them die because that was justice and duty…

The execution scene vanished, and Roald was left in the Chamber as the doors swung open. A condemning finger of light tricked into the Chamber, and, wondering if alone was all he would ever be, he stumbled into the chapel. His sense of disorientation only worsened when he saw Papa holding hands with Mama, heart plainly pounding as steadily as ever. It was a relief to see Papa alive, of course, but the Chamber had made his death seem so real. 

Next to Papa sat Shinko, whose polite smile appeared so composed but whose eyes showed pure pleasure at watching him emerge beaten but not broken from his Ordeal. He felt guilt at choosing duty over her and had to look away from her in shame. 

Glancing around the chapel, he saw his friends—Kel, Neal, Merric, Seaver, Esmond, and Owen—among the cheering and clapping crowd. They were blessedly alive and innocent of treason, but of course they were. They were loyal to the breaking point and would never betray Tortall or their duties. That was why they were friends. 

The sight of those who had been dead to him a moment ago made him wobble. He was spared the shame of falling facedown on the flagstones in front of the throngs who had flocked to the chapel to see the heir to the throne complete his Ordeal by Lord Imrah grasping his elbow. That was Lord Imrah: always prepared to catch him with a firm hand when he started to stumble. 

“Thank you, my lord.” Roald’s voice was hoarse from disuse. He would have to get used to speaking again. “It’d be disgraceful if I fell in front of everyone, wouldn’t it?” 

“Don’t mention it.” With an arm around Roald’s shoulders, Lord Imrah steered him down the nave. “Some very important people are waiting to congratulate you.” 

They had reached the pew where Mama and Papa were waiting for him. Mama, eyes shining with unshed tears, pulled him into a fierce but wordless embrace. Papa slapped him on the back, and answering the eternal, unspoken question every son had for his father, said softly, “You made us proud, Roald.” 

“Thank you, Papa.” There was a frog in Roald’s throat that refused to leap out as Kally slipped past their parents to hug him. 

With her face against his ear, she whispered for him alone to hear, “You did it for both of us, Roald.” 

Shinko stood before him now. He wanted to pull her against his chest and kiss her cherry blossom lips but realized that such a public display would humiliate her. He compromised by laying a long kiss on her fingers and was rewarded when she murmured, “I love you, Roald.” 

That was all she said, but it was enough. It would always be enough. He just hoped it would be enough for her when he replied, “I love you too, Shinko.” 

When he dropped her hand, he found his arms filled with Lianne and Vania. Lianne let her hug speak for her, but Vania pinched her nose as she clung to him, complaining in a rather squelched voice, “You stink of sweat, Roald. Gross.” 

“I wonder why,” muttered Roald dryly as he disentangled himself from his two youngest sisters. 

“You’d better not expect me to hug you if you smell,” Liam commented from the pew behind Mama and Papa, where he was wedged alongside Jasson. “Congratulations on not embarrassing the family, though.” 

“You flatter me, Liam.” Roald considered the praise effusive coming from Liam. 

“I told you that you’d be fine.” Jasson gazed smugly up at Roald. “You should’ve listened to me and saved yourself a load of worry.” 

“I’ve never been so happy to hear an I-told-you-so from you, Jasson.” Roald rumpled Jasson’s hair and ignored Jasson’s yelp of protest at this affectionate gesture. 

As he continued to guide Roald out of the packed chapel, Lord Imrah suggested, “You should take your sister’s advice and get yourself tidied up before your knighthood ceremony.” 

“Yes, sir.” Roald’s stomach was beginning to express discontent with only being served oranges and green tea the day before. “Could I eat first?” 

“I thought you might be hungry.” Lord Imrah smiled as he pulled a scone slathered in jam and wrapped in a napkin out of his pocket. Offering it to Roald, who accepted it with a nod of thanks, he added, “That’s why I thought you might enjoy this.” 

“You thought right.” The scone was flaky and warm, the jam fresh and sweet, and Roald had never tasted anything so delicious. “I appreciate your thought on my behalf, my lord.” 

By the time he arrived in his room, he had finished his scone. A hot tub awaited him by a roaring fire, and he scrubbed at his flesh frantically, trying to wash away all the horrors he had seen and done in the Chamber. 

When he was cleaned and clothed, he visited Shinko. Kneeling beside her on the cushions in her quarters, he held her hand between his trembling ones. 

“What you saw in the Chamber was all lies.” Shinko squeezed his hands, which should have been enough to stop their shaking but wasn’t. 

“Lies that revealed the truth about me.” Roald sighed. “I didn’t just see horrible things in the Chamber, Shinko. I did them by saying and doing nothing.” 

“Why did you do these horrible things?” Shinko’s question was as unflinching as her face. 

“Duty.” Roald clung to the word that would always be a cold comfort to him. 

“Duty demands horrible things of us. Duty requires us to sacrifice everything. Duty hurts.” Shinko kissed his cold cheek with her warm lips. “In the Yamani Islands, we call duty the killing sword. We pray to Yama to have the resolve to do anything duty asks of us, no matter how difficult. You have that determination, Roald, and I love you for that.” 

“What if I chose my duty over my love for you, Shinko?” Roald cupped her chin between his palms. If she loved him, she had to understand that it was duty above all that drove him. After the Ordeal, he saw how awful that could be. 

“Then I’d do my duty by you, supporting, serving, and sacrificing however I must.” Shinko’s spine was straight, posture as perfect as ever, and Roald pictured her as a willow blowing in the breeze, bending but not breaking beneath her duty. “I’m especially determined to do my duty when it’s hard, Roald, because it’s only duty when it’s hard. Otherwise, it’s just desire.”


End file.
